


Arthur's

by alltoseek



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, Multi, Orgy, Sex Club
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-03-31 19:16:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3989590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltoseek/pseuds/alltoseek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sex club AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [earlgreytea68](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Next Big Thing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3349583) by [earlgreytea68](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68). 



> Inspired by an impromptu speech by Arthur in chapter 5 of egt's Next Big Thing:
> 
>  
> 
> _Arthur says, “See, the thing is, I’d absolutely let you in except that half of the house is a sex dungeon and we’re kind of in the middle of an orgy and I’d have to go get releases for you to sign because the lawyers have a fit if we let anyone in who hasn’t been vetted and signed NDAs and really, running an underground sex club? Tons of paperwork. Not nearly as fun as you might think. I can’t even let you over the threshold without three separate forms of identification and a power of attorney. You wouldn’t believe the bureaucracy. It’s like Kafka.”_
> 
>  
> 
> which then becomes a running jest throughout the fic.
> 
>  
> 
> Obviously someone had to write it.
> 
> ~o~o~o~
> 
> The end game for this fic is Arthur/Eames, but it will take a looooong time to get there, and in the meantime Eames has lots of sex with lots of people who are not Arthur. Mal/Dom is a background pairing and Eames engages with them a few times in the venue of the club.
> 
> ~o~o~o~
> 
> This will quickly become obvious but among the many many things I don't know anything at all about include: sex clubs, the management thereof, participation in which, the bdsm scene, and practices of bdsm players. More things I know absolutely nothing about are Broadway shows or indeed any professional theater, acting or actors, or any of the professions involved in theater and/or Broadway. If you notice errors please tell me and I will try to correct them to the best of my ability. However, it's very likely that much suspension of disbelief will be required to enjoy this fic if you do happen to know a lot about any of the above, sorry!

The kitchen was small and convenient, with high-quality unostentatious appliances. Prints of still lifes by F. H. Allen added discrete touches of color. The man sitting at the table in the middle of the room was dressed much like his kitchen was furnished: with modern elegance and a hint of color. His brown suit jacket hung over the back of his chair and his shirt sleeves were rolled up, displaying slim and finely toned forearms. His tie was knotted, but loose, the top button of his shirt still undone. His waistcoat was picked out in a playful pattern of thin blue lines.

He was eating a grapefruit with precision, not bothering to protect his clothes from stray drops of juice as he made certain there would be none. His newspaper likewise remained pristine as he read the entertainment and gossip column.

 

>   
>  …And that’s why it’s best to bring an extra pair of panties to a party, JLaw.

> **He’s No Monster** …Hot, Hot Brit Easton Messinger steps into the hot, hot hit Broadway musical, _Frankenstein_ , for one month only as a personal favor to his bestie, Bobs Barrett, who’s going on a month-long honeymoon to Bora Bora and nearby islands. It’s a natural fit for Easty, who played both Victor and The Creature in the drama’s limited run in London, pre-musical. “We are ridiculously lucky to have him,” director Janie McDermott raved. “And did you know he could sing? Not just sing. SING.” Bobs had better hurry home from his sex holiday or he may not have a role to return to!

_Ah_ , the man thought as he scraped the last of the fruit from the rind, _that would be why we haven't seen Babar around lately._ He rose from his seat taking his plate to the sink. He slid the rind into the compost bin and rinsed the plate, leaving it in the rack to try. After washing and drying his hands he rolled his sleeves down and fastened the cuffs. He grabbed the jacket off the chair back and put it on as he headed into the apartment's front room. In the mirror by the door he checked that his dark hair was still neatly slicked back, gelled in place. It was. He fastened the top button of his shirt and snugged the tie in place.

He locked his front door behind him and went to work.

 

~o~o~o~

After that first hectic week on the show – rehearsals and performances and reworking scenes with Janie and performances and more rehearsals and more performances – Easton asked Julia, the makeup artist who was also assisting in getting him _out_ of the inordinate amount of paint playing the Creature required, where New Yorkers go to unwind.

Julia paused to stare at him. “Aren't you exhausted? I thought you were exhausted.”

Easton said, “Well, yeah...”

“'Julia, love, pleeeeease,'” said Julia in a very bad English accent.

“You know, there's a reason you are in makeup and not acting,” said Easton.

“'Please, for the love of God, _please_ help me clean up,'” continued Julia, not batting an eye. “'I'm utterly _knackered_. I can't even hold me bloody head up.'”

“It's still bloody, too,” Easton pointed out. “If you're not going to answer my question, the least you can do is kindly stop taking the piss and focus on your job.”

“Oh, _my_ job, is it? _My_ job, _loooove_ , is to put the makeup _on_. I could've been home an hour ago, except _someone_ kept begging me –”

“Julia, love, have pity,” Easton lay so far back in his chair he was looking at her upside-down. Even from this angle his half-lidded eyes and utterly ridiculous lips made him look like a mournful puppy dog. Maybe even more so.

“Your mouth's clearly not exhausted,” muttered Julia, scrubbing paint off skin perhaps a tad more harshly than necessary. “Why don't you just go to a bar or nightclub? There's tons around here. Pick one that looks good to you.”

“Eurgh,” said Easton. “If I want to drink I can go back to my hotel. I was hoping for, oh, I don't know, congenial company. Something quieter. Somewhere to relax, maybe let down my guard a bit.”

“Hmmph,” said Julia, articulately. “You find any place in New York City you can let your guard down for two seconds, you let me know.”

One of the wardrobe assistants wandered by, picking up discarded towels and other miscellany. “Bobs used to go to Arthur's a lot,” she piped up.

“Arthur's? What's that? Where is it?”

Julia snorted. “Too rich for the likes of me.”

“Yeah,” said the other girl – Jess, that was her name, Easton recalled – “It's some kind of private club for rich people. I don't know where it is either. But you can google it. Arthur's, New York City.”

~o~

By the time Easton had showered and dressed and returned to his hotel he'd unwound considerably. He was exhausted, true, but it was the kind of exhaustion that didn't help him sleep. Like an over-tired toddler. He had trouble relaxing when he was alone. Alone made him anxious, especially when he was already overworked. He'd been amongst strangers all week and didn't want to make the effort to meet a lot more new people. What he really wanted, and what he couldn't do here on the other side of the pond, was to pop over to a friend's place and sit in front of the telly drinking beer until he fell asleep on the sofa. Why he couldn't have even _one friend_ in the cosmopolitan jet-set who happened to be in town just now he didn't understand.

 _First world problems_ , he thought, smiling wryly at his ridiculous melancholy.

Never one to sit about moping and feeling sorry for himself, Easton grabbed a beer from the mini-bar, flicked the telly on to one of the many inane yet often surprisingly fascinating options available to Americans in the middle of the night, and sat on the bed with his laptop.

“arthurs new york city,” he entered into the search bar.

Arthur's Tavern, variations of which were the first handful of results, didn't look right – nothing private or club-like about it. But there, half-way down the page: “Arthur's, a member's-only private establishment.” He clicked the link.

The website was classy in the New York aesthetic: Fancy black script on a white background, nothing flashy or moving.

 

He stared, baffled, at the screen for a moment, then laughed out loud. “It's a sex club!”

~o~

 _All right_ , he thought, _I'm up for a lark_. He clicked the only link, which took him to a membership application, an intimidatingly long and detailed form, no doubt intentionally so. _Name, address, phone, blah blah --- three forms of identification..._ “Why the fuck do they need _three_ forms of identification?” Easton checked his wallet: _Let's see, passport, driving licence (will they care that it's UK? They better not) and... and... Ah ha! My stage pass. All right, there's that sorted, what next..._

Next was club dues and income verification. “Too rich for me” was what Julia had said, and the annual fee was indeed pretty steep, and out of Easton's league. But they offered a three-month “trial” membership ( _trial for me or for the club?_ , the cynic in him wondered), which he could just manage on the salary plus bonus the show's producers had given him for stepping in on short notice. (His agent had then insisted also on their covering the cost of his swanky hotel suite in Manhattan, which Easton didn't even want to know what that amounted to, because he guessed it was likely three times what they were paying him directly. Easton had the world's best agent when it came to negotiations.)

The application also asked for references, previous addresses, employment history...

Easton worked through the document until his eyes slid closed and his body slid sideways onto the bed.

~o~

Easton woke up to raucous laughter cackling from the telly. Blearily he looked around for the remote, couldn't find it, stumbled over to the set, couldn't find the sodding power switch on the bloody thing, but did finally locate the remote sitting on the set top, and the big red power button on the remote.

Mission accomplished, he flopped back on the bed to return to sleep. He pushed aside the laptop, which woke the screen up. Easton gazed blankly at the application, still open on the screen, almost complete. _Christ on a bike _, he thought, _I was actually going to do that. A sex club. With complete strangers. What the hell was I thinking? _His hand hovered over the close browser button. _Sex, that's what I was thinking. What the hell_ , he decided, _I can check it out at least._ Easton completed the application, and hit the submit button with no further hesitation.____

____Then he went back to sleep._ _ _ _

 

 

~o~o~o~

When Arthur's sister visited his Manhattan apartment and saw him in his tailored three-piece suits, she called his life “glamorous” – a long way from their childhood in Brooklyn, wearing second-hand clothes and not replacing their shoes until their toes stuck out of them. Arthur must be making pretty good money as an office manager for one of Saito's companies.

Arthur agreed about the money. But he thought about his typical day: A jog around Central Park, a short workout in the building's small common gym, then heading into his office for a 12-hour workday. At home he read the newspapers, followed a few blogs. “My life's not really glamorous,” he told his sister. “It's all rather routine.”

She didn't believe him.

 

~o~o~o~

Easton woke up late in the morning. He took his leisurely time getting up, then sauntered down to the hotel restaurant for breakfast. Or lunch, whatever they were serving. As he was finishing his meal he checked his phone for emails. He had several not very interesting ones, and replied half-heartedly to friends keeping in touch from various parts of the globe. He was just about to log off and search for something interesting to occupy his afternoon when one final email came in. It purported to be from “Arthur” of “Arthur's”. It thanked him for his application and asked if he was available to meet at the club in a few hours. It listed alternate times if the first was not convenient. Under the sign-off was a phone number and address.

“Huh,” Easton thought. He replied, accepting the appointment.

~o~

Arthur's turned out to be located at the top of a midtown skyscraper. As he exited the elevator into the club's foyer, a sharply-dressed young man emerged from an office opposite the entrance, holding out his hand and offering a smile. “Welcome to Arthur's, Mr Messinger,” he said. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

“Thank you,” said Easton, still taking in the striking image of slicked-back dark hair, warm brown eyes with a slight mischievous cast to them, in a face that was New-York-pale and almost impossibly youthful. All this atop a trim figure in an exquisitely tailored suit.

“Please, if you would step into my office,” said the man, and turned to lead the way back into the office.

 _A trim_ shapely _figure_ , thought Easton, as he noted the lovely curves hugged by the seat of the man's trousers, under the play of his European-cut jacket. _Yes_ , decided Easton. _I was thinking sex. Checking it out. This was definitely an excellent idea. One of my best._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The excerpt from the entertainment/gossip column was written by Burning_Up_A_Sun. Thank you! :D


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Eames, Arthur, and the sex club.
> 
> aka exposition, blah blah, expositiony blah blah blah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'd think a sex club AU might actually have sex in it at some point, huh. 
> 
> Maybe next chapter? Am pretty sure we'll get some then. I hope.

Easton walked into an office that practically screamed “traditional old money” to Americans. Wood-paneled wainscoting, a light-coloured, elegant, richly-textured wallpaper, inset bookcases and cupboards of the same dark wood as the paneling, plush carpeting of a dark red like currant, or garnet. Finished, of course, with the obligatory imposing mahogany desk, at which the young man seated himself. Eames sat in one of the comfortable armchairs in front of the desk.

The young man spoke. “We have completed an initial review of the application and all looks satisfactory. We will of course be doing a more thorough background check, but you come with excellent references –”

“References are something of a specialty for me,” murmured Eames.

The man frowned slightly at the interruption, quizzical, but continued smoothly, “And thus I see no need to delay your membership.”

Easton was a bit taken aback; the man sounded as if he were doing Easton a favour. _Private club for rich_ snooty pretentious _people_ , he thought, amending Julia's description. It never failed to amaze him, the American desire to re-create the aristocratic class lines they'd proudly left behind. However, there was no use being pissy to the man; Easton was here for a short time only. Possibly made even shorter, if these people dug up the bit about him sneaking smokes back in fourth form. “I was a bit surprised how quickly you got back to me; I submitted the application only this morning.”

The man flashed a quick smile. “If I understand correctly you are in town for only a month or so? I'd think we'd need to act quickly for you to gain the most benefit from membership.”

Eames nodded. “Thank you for your consideration.”

The smile flashed again. _Wait, were those dimples?_ “Not at all. There are only a few items we need to complete for your application; I much appreciate your thoroughness. I'm always surprised by what some people will send through a web form – I don't blame you at all for leaving a few blanks.”

As they filled in the last pieces, Easton took some time to look about the office in greater detail. The expansive desk was uncluttered: a flat screen stood in one corner, and a tablet (on which Easton intermittently initialed here and signed there) diagonally across. A sleek desk lamp graced the opposite corner, next to a moleskine notebook. One file was open in the middle – Easton's, where he had been signing here and initialing there as directed. The bookcases held few books, and those were neatly aligned and tucked away. The shelves were sparsely decorated with knick-knacks – actual works of art, Easton would guess, and itched to examine more closely. “If you would just sign here.” _Permission to treat in case of emergency_ : Easton sighed and signed. 

On the walls hung more surprises: not Old Master nudes, nor stuffy portraits, nor even Hudson River School landscapes, but various abstracts providing splashes of colour. Not the inevitable Pollocks and Rothkos either, but the kind that you're sure you can pick the figures out of, if you could just look at them long enough... 

“Thank you for your patience,” said the young man, with an easy smile. _Definitely dimples_. “Just one more item: if you could provide a name for club use.”

“Right,” said Easton. “I was confused about that – what exactly do you mean by a 'club name'?”

“It's like an alias for use in the club. We value discretion very highly, as you must be aware.”

“Yes,” agreed Easton. The first rule of sex club being don't talk about sex club, or at least don't talk about anyone you saw at sex club, had been stressed multiple times in multiple ways, usually bolded and in all caps. “If you happen to mention that you saw the mayor here with an intern or three, you get booted out immediately.”

“Exactly. Thus we use nicknames to refer to members; this aids in preserving confidentiality.”

“Well, OK, but... my face is plastered all about New York just now. I can go by any name you like but I'm pretty certain to be recognised regardless.”

The dimples returned, delightfully. “Very true,” he nodded, voice grave despite the smile. “However, it's possible for others who haven't actually seen you here to hear about you if members should mention you by name. I understand you personally might not be particularly concerned, but many of our members are _very_ reliant on the discretion of their fellows in the club. So it is policy that all members go by an alias, a name used only for the club. The consistency reinforces the confidentiality.”

“All right,” said Easton, and thought for a moment. “How about, um, Eames?”

“Excellent.” The dimples grew deeper as the young man's eyes crinkled at the corners. “Welcome to our club, Mr Eames.”

Easton – _Eames_ , he'll want to get used to that – rose as the other man did, walking back around his desk. “Before we take you on a tour of the club, do you have any questions for us?”

_Yes_ , thought Eames, _What the hell is your name, and are you part of the club package or is there an extra premium?_ He squashed that very impolite thought and asked, “So is there an Arthur behind Arthur's or is it just the club's name?”

“Oh, I'm terribly sorry – I never introduced myself! I'm Arthur.” He extended a hand to shake again. 

Eames gaped a second, then threw his head back and laughed.

The young man stiffened, and all trace of humour and warmth vanished from his countenance. “I beg your pardon,” he – Arthur – said, “I fail to understand your amusement.”

“Oh come now,” said Eames, bringing his laughter under control. “You are absurdly young! You can't possibly –”

“I can, and I do, I assure you,” said Arthur. “However, if you are dissatisfied at any time with the management of this establishment, I will gladly refund your payment. We can take care of that now, if you like.” He was all cool professional detachment; if he harboured any anger towards Eames it was well-hidden.

“No, no, not at all,” said Eames. “It's my turn to apologise; I was inexcusably rude. I have every confidence in your abilities.”

Arthur's eyes narrowed a bit, then the professional mask slid back in place. He opened the door and ushered Eames through.

Behind the reception desk, located across from the foyer and next to Arthur's office door, stood a very young woman, who appeared to be about four feet tall. Maybe four and a half.

“Ms Ariadne,” greeted Arthur, the warmth withdrawn from Eames returning, “Mr Eames here is our newest member.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr Eames,” the girl said, with a charming smile.

Eames shook her hand, then turned a puzzled look back to Arthur. “I thought you didn't allow minors in the club?”

This half-jesting comment earned him two similar narrow-eyed glares. For a moment he felt like an unwelcomed tutor to a teenaged brother and sister.

“Ms Ariadne is pursuing graduate studies at a university here in the City. We are extremely lucky to have her in our employ,” said Arthur stiffly.

“I have taken down men larger than you,” Ariadne added, faux-sweetly. “If you would like a personal demonstration I would be happy to provide.” Arthur shot her a quelling glance.

Eames took a step back and held up both hands. “I'm sorry, for some reason I seem determined to work my foot into my mouth at every opportunity today. Please, allow me to start over.” He offered the young woman his hand. “Ms Ariadne, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Eames wondered when he had got so old. He had never felt so old before.

Ariadne's faux-sweetness mellowed into the real thing, and the sparkle in her eye was more cheerful than threatening, now. 

Arthur's professional mask remained in place. “Ms Ariadne, would you please show Mr Eames around the club? This is his first visit here.”

“Of course, Mr Arthur.” She smiled again at Eames. “If you would step this way, Mr Eames.”

Arthur nodded to them both and returned to his office. Ariadne led Eames past the office door to the other side of the foyer. “Here is the bar and drinking lounge,” she stated, unnecessarily. It looked like just about every other upscale bar and lounge Eames had seen in America. Although the view out the side and rear windows was pretty spectacular, soaring over the skyscrapers of midtown and lower Manhattan. “It's not an explicit club rule, but we prefer that alcoholic drinks remain in this area,” Ariadne continued. “Also, it's preferred that members be clothed here, and not to engage in sexual activities in this part of the club. It's more an area for relaxation and socialisation,” she confided. She returned them back towards the reception desk. “When you first enter the club, we'll have you sign in here at reception. Part of signing in is making sure that you and your guest, if you've brought one, are in a state of mind where you are able to consent. That is, that you are not drunk or high on anything.”

“Ah,” said Eames. “You don't think that's maybe the member's decision to determine? And the guests themselves?”

“Well,” said Ariadne, “the thing is, you think, yeah, you come to a sex club to have sex, right? But the club provides for all different types of sexual activities, as our members enjoy a wide variety of interactions. Now someone whose judgement is impaired may not be in a place where they can agree to some things but then say no to other things. I know it sounds paternalistic on the part of the club, but Arthur's policies have always been emphatic in stressing consensual activities only, and a person can't really consent when their judgement is heavily impacted by drugs or alcohol. It's not that you can't drink _at all_ ,” she added hastily. “A couple drinks in the bar is fine, usually.”

“But this whole consent thing is why you try to keep the alcohol on one side, and the sex on the other.”

“Yes, exactly,” said Ariadne, with some relief. “God, I hate explaining this bit,” she muttered under her breath.

“Oh, it's a fair enough policy, I understand.”

“Great,” said Ariadne, flashing a smile. They walked on past the desk. “Now just here is the cloakroom,” she explained, opening a door. “Oh, hey, Trizz,” she said to a young man straightening up inside. 

Trizz turned. “Hey, Ariadne.”

“I'm showing Mr Eames around. He's a new member.”

Eames shook Trizz's hand. “Pleasure, Mr Trizz.”

“Just Trizz, please. Only Arthur is all formal about the names. Well, we staff are supposed to be formal with the members, but only Arthur is Mr This and Ms That with everyone.”

“Mister Arthur,” said Ariadne, grinning.

“Yeah, we gotta call him _Mister_ Arthur, too. God help you if you don't, 'cause no human will.”

Ariadne stifled a giggle, then cleared her throat and said, “So we call this the cloakroom, but it's also a sort of locker room or changing room. If you want to keep clothes here you can have a locker assigned, or the cloakroom attendant – who'll be Trizz this evening – can take your coat and jacket, whatever you don't want to wear around the club. Most members take their shoes off; they find that more comfortable, but it's entirely up to you,” she added.

The cloakroom was certainly a large step up from any locker room Eames had ever seen: instead of gray metal lockers there were wooden cupboards in a light maple finish. The room was carpeted and the benches were wide and plush and comfortable. The whole room was light and airy and had the same pleasing mild to unnoticeable scent of the rest of the club.

They stepped back out to the main lounge. “We call this the Dreamshare lounge,” said Ariadne. “This is the top level of the club.”

“This looks lovely,” said Eames. He began wandering around in it. “I could happily spend all my time here, I believe. Wonderful!” The lounge was long, low, and wide; one whole wall was composed of windows overlooking Central Park. Furniture in the lounge came in various sizes and shapes: some like overlarge ottomans, almost bed-sized, some like sectional couches with corners, others were cosy loveseats or armchairs. They were all upholstered in a soft, plush material, that Eames suspected was also stain and spill resistant and easy to wash, as just like in all the other rooms, everything was spotlessly clean and fresh. The colours ranged through a variety of rich reds, russets and terra-cotta, and dark gold. In the natural light of the late afternoon glowing through the windows, the colours rolled through the space in an earthy, inviting embrace.

The most ingenious aspect of the space was the way the floor level rose and dipped by a foot or two throughout the room. The combination of the furniture arrangement and the varying floor levels created some spaces that were open and drew the eye, and others that appeared almost dark and private. You could enjoy anything from a full Roman-style orgy to a quiet twosome tryst in the same room.

Even more ingenious, Eames realised as he walked further through the lounge, was the way space in the backs of the various pieces of furniture was used. There were many drawers, cupboards, and open shelves containing towels, water bottles, a range of lubricants and scented oils, and liberal amounts of condoms. All tucked discreetly away, yet readily available. Remarkable.

“This room is bloody fantastic,” declared Eames.

“Oh, Scott will be so happy to hear that!” said Ariadne gleefully. “He did most of the design work for it. He loves hearing any kind of praise about it.”

“You may lavish upon our Scott all the praise at your command with my blessing,” said Eames. “I am in love with this place already.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames' first evening in the club.

As Ariadne led Eames through the Dreamshare lounge, music of a woman singing in French started playing over the unobtrusive club speakers.

“Édith Piaf?” asked Eames. 

“Yes,” said Ariadne. 

“Nice taste,” remarked Eames. “Suitable.”

“Thanks,” replied Ariadne. “It's Arthur's.”

“Of course it is,” said Eames, smiling. “Does he play her all night?”

“No,” said Ariadne. “He used to, but the members revolted after a while.” They both laughed. “Now we just use her for the countdown.”

“Countdown? Countdown to what?”

“The kick,” answered Ariadne, offhand.

Eames paused, then decided to bite once more. “The what?”

“The kickoff. Club opening,” she explained. “Then she plays again just before closing.”

“And that would be the countdown to the kick _out_.”

“Yes, exactly,” smiled Ariadne. “Gives lingering members a bit of a warning. During club hours we usually play instrumental music – nothing too intrusive, and we also try to avoid anything sounding too much like a porno.”

Eames huffed a laugh. “That'd be good to avoid, yeah.”

Ariadne began giggling infectiously and soon Eames joined her in laughing, and then said, “If the club's about to open I should let you get back to reception.”

“That's all right, Maria'll cover for me.”

“[Maria](https://youtu.be/SYsCUudmtnE?t=6)?”

“She pronounces it [Maria](https://youtu.be/KZvcZFGeBfg?t=4),” clarified Ariadne.

“In England, the name is often pronounced [Maria](https://youtu.be/1qNW0nhhhcE?t=8), you know, and in France it's [Maria](https://youtu.be/jYHfdz05y4U?t=8).”

“Huh, that's pretty similar to our Maria, now I think about it,” mused Ariadne.

Having reached the end of the lounge, Eames saw a set of double doors in mahagony in front of them, and a corridor leading down the side.

“The doors open to the staircase that goes down to the second and third levels,” explained Ariadne. “Down the hallway there are smaller private rooms.” 

Eames went a few steps into the hallway. Opening the nearest door, he saw a space about the size of a student residence room, but much more comfortably appointed in a style similar to that of the lounge.

“Each room is somewhat different, if you'd like to take a look at them,” Ariadne invited.

“That's all right,” said Eames. “Leave some mysteries for later.” He winked at Ariadne, who smiled back.

Édith finished singing and Eames then heard the soft strains of a [piano](https://youtu.be/o3D8Ri84hmw). 

Ariadne led Eames back towards the club entrance, this time along the inside wall that bordered the Dreamshare lounge. “Here are the men's and women's bathrooms, as you see. There are showers and baths available as well as hot tubs.” She opened the door to the men's room without looking in herself, to let Eames pop his head in.

“Nice,” he approved. He wasn't really worried. Based on everything else he'd seen, he was sure Arthur provided excellent facilities.

“Now here we have a communal bathroom, for people who enjoy various types of water play. Similar facilities are available as in the single-sex rooms, except roomier, or on a larger scale.” She opened the door, and the first thing that caught Eames' eye was a giant hot tub spa, about as big as a small backyard swimming pool.

“Very nice,” said Eames, impressed.

That brought them back near the cloakroom and the reception desk. “I can show you around down on the second and third levels, if you like,” offered Ariadne.

“Thank you, but I think I'll be very happy up here this evening,” said Eames. A few members had come in already, and one shapely young woman had caught Eames' eye. “Thanks again for the tour, Ms Ariadne,” he said, smiling.

“My pleasure, Mr Eames,” she replied, smiling back. “Please let me, or any of the staff, know if there's anything we can do for you.” She took her place behind the reception desk.

Eames nodded his acknowledgement, then turned back towards the club. Before heading off to look for the woman he'd seen, he thought he'd get a drink or two at the bar.

The drinking lounge was quiet, one or two people sitting near the windows, contemplating the view. Eames sat on a stool at the bar and chatted with the bartender, an older man called Brown. “It's good to see that not everyone who works at Arthur's is required to be a pretty young thing,” Eames joked.

Brown lifted an eyebrow. “Some of us may no longer be young, but still consider ourselves good-looking.”

Eames finished his drink and nibbled on some bar nuts, musing on how many times he could inadvertently offend people in one night. He hoped the misunderstandings would be confined to the staff and not other members, or he might find his time here very uncomfortable. Perhaps he should stick to using his mouth for activities other than talking. _Not that resolving to keep myself quiet has ever worked in the past_ , he thought wryly.

Eames returned to the Dreamshare lounge and looked around for the shapely woman he'd noticed earlier. He found her quickly – found her already engaged with two other men. _Ah,_ he concluded, _if you see something you like, snatch it up directly or miss your opportunity._

With few other potential partners in sight, Eames elected to sit on a sofa along the windows, near a good-looking man a few years older than Eames, who was also watching the threesome. After a few minutes the man took a sip from his glass – whiskey ( _so much for the club's informal alcohol rule_ , observed Eames), set it down on the ledge behind them, and offered his hand. “Hi, I'm Dom.”

“Eames,” said Eames, shaking hands. The man's smile lightened his face considerably, and Eames revised his age estimate down. A straw-coloured fringe swept rakishly across his broad forehead. Though narrowed by his smile, his blue eyes shown brilliantly. “They make for a lovely view, don't they?” said Eames, nodding towards the woman and her two suitors.

“Sure,” smiled Dom, casting them a quick look before turning back to Eames. “Do you prefer the woman or the men?”

“Oh, I'm all for equal opportunity, as the saying goes.”

“I am too,” agreed Dom. “May I kiss you, Eames?”

“All right.” 

Eames began tentatively, a little startled by Dom's swift directness: he hadn't kissed a stranger in some time. But Dom was confident without being demanding, assured without arrogance. Eames relaxed into the kiss, allowing it to deepen. Dom's hand came up around Eames' nape; Eames' fingers touched Dom's cheek, then reached along into his hair. After several minutes, they pulled back a little.

“You are an excellent kisser, Dom,” said Eames.

“Thank you,” smiled Dom. “You make it easy.” His eyes flickered down to Eames' mouth. “Your lips are a delight.”

Said lips stretched into a smile. “Thank you,” returned Eames.

Dom's hand curled around Eames' necktie. “Do you mind if we loosen some of this?”

“Not at all, please do.”

They kissed again, Dom working Eame's tie loose, then unfastening the top few buttons. Dom was wearing a polo shirt, buttons already undone. Eames dropped his hand to Dom's waist, and worked up under his shirt. Dom ran a hand inside Eames' shirt, onto his shoulder.

“Dom!” exclaimed a woman approaching them. “You have found us such a pretty one!” she continued in a lilting French accent.

They broke off their kiss. “Mal, this is Eames. Eames, my wife, Mal.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Mal,” says Eames, taking her offered hand, and raising it to his lips to kiss her knuckles.

She trilled with pleased laughter. “You have delightful manners, M Eames. Please, may I sit in your lap?”

“That would be my great pleasure, Madame.”

“Oh, you must never call me Madame! That makes me feel too old. I am not old, am I?”

“Not at all; but then you must not call me Monsieur.”

“But then what to do with a name like Eames? So boring! My Dominic has a strong, interesting name.”

“I apologise for the banality of my name. Arthur neglected to mention that it would not prove worthy of your regard.”

“Oh, Arthur!” Mal said dismissively. “He is a lovely boy, but no imagination.”

Eames regarded her: Mal's face was open, framed by ringlets of dark hair; eyes wide with only a hint of makeup to accentuate their natural arcs; smile-thinned lips with a lifted quirk at the edges. Her wine-dark dress caressed the curves of her trim figure without artifice; the fabric thin and smooth but not clingy; the cut graceful and the hemline short, teasing without revealing.

“Conversely, I imagine that you are not at all lacking in creativity,” observed Eames.

Mal's smiled widened. Dom laughed and added, “No, she is not. Mal is all inspiration, ingenuity itself. She is an elusive fantasy that transcends dreams to adorn our reality.”

Mal, amused, glanced sidelong at her husband. “And Dom is in love with his words, the sound of his voice.”

Dom merely chuckled again. “I might sound like clichéd hyperbole; but I assure you it is all true.”

“I do not doubt it,” Eames readily agreed.

Mal lifted her finger to Eames' mouth. “Your lips are hyperbole attained, without cliché,” she said, tracing her finger around them, slowly, gently.

“Thank you,” said Eames, aiming for wry, but sounding a little breathless to his own ears. 

Mal brought her hand under his chin, tilting his head to look at her directly, her gaze intent with sympathy: “Compliments – observations – on your lovely mouth is nothing new to you, is it? Were you teased? Were they cruel to you?”

Memories, buried for years, flashed through Eames' mind: derisive voices jeering: 'girlie lips', 'cocksucking mouth'...

“But you know they were wrong, they were envious of you,” Mal continued. “There are always those who are envious of the attractive, the talented. They say we are fortunate, we are blessed – but it is our hard work that makes us successful, no?” Mal's elegant fingers were stroking the sides of Eames' face; the blue of her startling eyes intent on his own. “I know you are successful; only those who succeed can be here, at this place. The cruelty of envy is everywhere; but more numerous by far are those who admire us for our beauty, our talent, our genius, yes? Here is only the admiration, the delight in the pleasure we bring, in our joy.” 

Eames felt himself spellbound by her words, her empathy, her intensity, the intimacy she created – he was barely aware of Dom, just there on the edge of perception, but with her words, tickling as a whisper, her breath caressing his lips, his cheeks, his ears, Mal created a space for just Eames and herself, a circle to enclose them, an invisible border from the rest of the room. 

“You have learned to use your beautiful lips, yes? In your smiles, and in your kisses too, I am right, no? Dominic, tell me how beautifully M Eames kisses.” 

Dom complied, smiling, voice soft yet firm, confident, his words flowing into the charged connection. 

“Now will you kiss me, please, M Eames?” 

Eames did so eagerly, feeling himself yielding up to her completely.

~o~o~o~

As the evening wore on, the club filled up with members. Eventually Arthur left his post near reception and his office, where he greeted visitors as they entered. He detached himself from the numerous queries of his staff, all of whom were well-qualified for their work, and in whose judgement Arthur trusted (if not, they would soon find themselves looking for alternate employment). Arthur saw it as his duty to greet members at the door, and he enjoyed it, as he enjoyed too speaking with staff about the intricacies and details of their particular domains. But another of his duties, also pleasurable, fortunately, was wandering all throughout the club, seeing for himself that members and their guests were enjoying themselves, which activities and facilities were most engaging, insuring that staff were performing their tasks efficiently and unobtrusively.

Arthur particularly liked to keep an eye out for new members or guests, to make sure all was well with them. The idea of a sex club might sound intriguing, arousing; but was not necessarily to everyone's taste in reality. As Arthur strolled along, he smiled and greeted and chatted with anyone who wanted his attention, always with an awareness of the others in the area. 

Finally he spotted Eames in the Dreamshare lounge, back by the window. Mal was in Eames' lap, Dom standing behind her. Arthur frowned slightly, concerned; however, Eames appeared entirely absorbed in pleasure. His jacket, shirt, and tie lay discarded behind him, crumpled in a heap; his trousers had been pushed down his thighs. His eyes were darkened and hooded, a lazy smile lifting his parted lips slightly, whenever not actively engaged in kissing. His hands stroked along Mal's body, from her thighs to up under her dress to her hips, her belly and sides, to her breasts, cupping and caressing. Dom's focus likewise was on Mal, but Eames seemed unconcerned whenever his hands encountered Dom's, or Dom's hands played along Eames' broad shoulders, over the curves of his biceps, along the breadth of his chest. The three of them moved together, hips gently rocking, joined as one: for a moment Arthur felt caught up in that same fascination Mal and Dom had always spun for him, then he tore his eyes away, and continued his walk through the club.

~o~o~o~

Eames left the men's room freshly showered, feeling in equal parts invigorated and exhausted. Which was an odd feeling, sure, but a good one, thought Eames, as his lips quirked. Similar to the end of a well-received opening night – months of preparation and rehearsals paying off in the thrill of performance to a delighted crowd. Though tonight's was a more solitary triumph, for all that it had been shared with others. _Too much thinking_ , Eames decided. No more of that for now. He expected to sleep well tonight.

In the cloakroom he collected his shoes, and also his tie that had been retrieved for him, forgotten down the back of a sofa.

“Thank you, Trizz,” exclaimed Eames. “This is my favourite tie. I'd've missed it. Eventually,” he added, smiling.

“Not at all, Mr Eames. Our pleasure,” replied Trizz. 

Eames gave him a wink at the 'Mr Eames', remembering their conversation earlier in the evening. Next he stopped by reception to sign himself out. 

“How did you enjoy your evening, Mr Eames?” Ariadne asked.

“Very well, very much indeed, thank you,” smiled Eames. “I met a wonderful, lovely couple – Dom and Mal?”

“Oh!” Ariadne's eyes widened. “Wow, the Cobbs. Yes, I did see that they'd come in tonight.”

Eames raised his eyebrows quizzically at Ariadne's expression and tone. “Is there something I should know about them?”

Ariadne recollected herself. “Oh no, not at all. It's just interesting, your happening to meet them your first night here. Dom used to manage the club. Actually, I think he started it. That was all before I started working here, so I'm not certain about the details.”

“I see. And then they eventually decided it was more fun to play in the club than to run it?”

Ariadne smiled. “I expect it was something like that. I know they met when Mal started coming here, while Dom was still managing it. The club was called DreamShare back then. Arthur changed the name when he took over management, but that's why the top floor lounge is called Dreamshare.”

“And Arthur then named the club after himself,” said Eames. “Imaginative,” he added, a tad sarcastically.

A murmur came into Eames' ear over his shoulder. “The club provides the facilities; our members bring the imagination.” Arthur smiled slightly as Eames turned to face him. 

“Yes, indeed they do,” replied Eames, thinking back to his experience with the enchanting Mal. He had laughed to himself when Dom had praised her with his awkward phrases that aspired to the poetical without quite reaching it; but now he understood Dom was indeed not exaggerating, and Eames would likewise be hard pressed to put into words those sensations that Mal could evoke.


End file.
